Moments later they were driving up to the house, which looked almost as majestic as President Wilcox’s Lago-a-Oceano, only smaller in size and painted a pale orange, resembling the setting sun, with the roof tiled in pink tiles and the gutters a bright blue.

  “I like the color scheme,” said Chase as he parked the car next to a stone fountain. They got out and Odelia opened the door so the cats could jump out, too.

  “You weren’t kidding,” said Chase. “You’re going to let them sniff around, huh?”

  “They love to discover new… stuff,” she said, and watched as the five cats pranced off. As usual, they’d formed pairs: Max and Dooley, Harriet and… Wait. Harriet was going off alone, and Brutus and Milo had paired up. Weird. Maybe they were making new friends?

  Chapter 31

  “Did you see that?” asked Dooley.

  “What?” I asked.

  “Brutus and Milo. They went off together!”

  He was right. And Harriet was staring after her mate, an annoyed look on her face.

  “The loser,” she said as she joined us. “I told him not to listen to that guy but he insists Milo makes a lot of sense.”

  “I guess Brutus is more susceptible to Milo’s manipulations than most,” I said.

  “Don’t worry, Harriet,” said Dooley. “He’ll come around. I saw through Milo’s lies, too, you know. Like the stuff he told me about the worms? Max convinced me those were all lies.”

  Even though Dooley had had a relapse, I’d finally managed to convince him he had no worms. Otherwise Vena would have found them during our last checkup.

  “We have to get that cat out of our lives,” said Harriet now. “When are we going to put your plan into action, Max?”

  “As soon as we lay the groundwork,” I said.

  “You better do it soon, all right? I’m starting to lose it.”

  “Lose what?” asked Dooley.

  “It!” I could tell from Dooley’s expression that he wanted to ask what ‘it’ was but Harriet’s outburst gave him pause. “So what’s the plan, Max?” asked Harriet.

  “We chat with anyone who’ll talk to us,” I said. “Find out what they know.”

  “Fine,” said Harriet, who didn’t seem particularly motivated for this mission.

  Nor could I blame her. Now that Brutus had fallen for Milo’s deceit, there was no telling what that cat was up to next. Short of outfitting Brutus with an explosive belt and sending him on a suicide mission to take out all of Milo’s enemies or incite a revolution amongst Hampton Cove’s ant population, I figured we could expect anything from him.

  We walked around the drive, which was covered with butter-yellow gravel and looked like the kind of sugar Odelia likes to put on her pancakes, and arrived at the back. No swimming pool here, or even a Jacuzzi. Secretary Berish did have a nice patch of lawn that stretched all the way to the ocean, where two deck chairs were set out and a nice parasol.

  A chilly breeze wafted in from the ocean. It was too early in the year to go for a swim. Springtime in the Hamptons might be occasionally sunny, but it’s not exactly warm. Still, it was probably nice to sit and gaze out across the vast expanse of the North Atlantic.

  “I don’t see any cats,” said Dooley. “Or dogs. Or ducks. Or even rabbits.”

  “Me neither,” I confessed. I did see Brutus and Milo, who’d hopped up on those deck chairs and were now lazing about, probably talking deep philosophy.

  “I hate them,” said Harriet, who’d noticed the same. “I hate them both.”

  And she stalked off in the direction of the house. Dooley and I followed suit. There wasn’t a lot for us to do out here. At least the patio door was open, a man smoking a cigarette and standing in the doorway holding it open for us. If he was surprised to see three cats slip into the house, he didn’t show it. He had a cook’s hat placed on top of his head, and wore one of those white smocks, so I figured he was probably part of the kitchen staff.

  Once inside, we traipsed through the house, in search of pets, but found no sign of them. No cat bowls, or dog bowls, or any bowls for that matter. Could this place be petless?

  “Looks like Odelia managed to find the one person who doesn’t keep pets,” I said.

  “Bummer,” Dooley agreed, as it also meant there was no food for us to steal.

  We’d arrived in a large office, and saw that Harriet was staring intently at a stuffed animal mounted on the wall. It was a stuffed fox, and the sight of the thing gave me the willies. People who stuff animals should probably get stuffed themselves, as I can’t think of a more cruel hobby.

  “Yikes,” I said. The three of us were staring up at the fox now, wondering what the poor creature had done to deserve such a terrible fate.

  Just then, a voice rang out through the room. “What are you three doing here?”

  We turned around as one cat, and saw that the voice belonged to an odd-looking reptilian creature in a glass terrarium, which had been placed on a table near the window.

  “What are you?!” Dooley exclaimed, forgetting his sense of propriety. We were guests here, after all. Well, not guests so much as intruders.

  “I, sir, am a bearded dragon,” said the creature superciliously.

  “You’re very small for a dragon,” said Dooley.

  “I’m not a dragon. I’m a bearded dragon,” said the lizard.

  “And I’m a tiger,” said Dooley, happily prancing up for a closer look.

  As he did, the dragon’s beard suddenly extended and the creature hissed.

  Dooley shot about two feet into the air, then scooted off with the speed of light and disappeared underneath the desk.

  “It’s all right, Dooley,” I said. “He’s inside a cage. He can’t hurt you.”

  But Dooley wasn’t taking any chances. He was under that desk and he was staying put.

  “We’re here to conduct an official police investigation,” I told the dragon, who by now had stopped hissing and whose beard had morphed back to its normal size. At least now I understood why he called himself a bearded dragon. He actually had an actual beard! “A man was murdered. His name was Dick Dickerson and he was the editor of a tabloid named the National Star. Apparently he printed a lot of bad things about your human—at least I assume Brenda Berish is your human—and what we’re trying to discover is if she had something to do with Dickerson’s death or if she knows of someone who did.”

  It was a long speech and I patiently waited for the bearded dragon to take it all in. I had no idea if this creature was intelligent or not but judging from the way he’d reacted to Dooley I assumed he was.

  “This is a waste of time, Max,” said Harriet finally. “Let’s get out of here and see what kinds of lies Milo is filling Brutus’s head with this time.”

  And she made for the door. “Dickerson did print some bad stuff about Brenda,” said the lizard suddenly. “And she did hate him with quite a fervor. But she didn’t kill that man.”

  “Oh, thanks, lizard,” I said. “How can you be so sure?”

  “Please don’t call me ‘lizard,’ cat. I have a name and it is Humphrey.”

  “Sure, Humphrey. Whatever you say. So how do you know Brenda didn’t do it?”

  “She was in here talking about the murder last night. Her and her husband. They weren’t broken-hearted over it, as you can imagine. But they didn’t celebrate either. Brenda is a very kind woman, and she would never gloat over the death of another human being.”

  “What do you eat?” asked Dooley suddenly from his position under the desk.

  “Pardon me?” said Humphrey.

  “What kind of food do they give you?” asked Dooley. “Usually when Odelia sends us into these places there’s food waiting there for us. But I don’t see anything around here.”

  “Dooley—it’s not polite to demand food from your host,” said Harriet.

  “Technically Brenda is not our host,” I said. “We snuck in, remember?”

  “If you must know, I’m quite partial to worms,” said Humphrey.

  “Worms?” asked Dooley, wriggling from under the desk. “What kind of worms?”

  “Oh, waxworms, silkworms, butterworms, red worms, earthworms, mealworms, superworms…”

  “I didn’t even know there were so many different worms!” Dooley cried, looking horrified. He was clutching his tummy and I just knew he was thinking of Milo’s words again.

  “I like crickets, too,” said Humphrey conversationally. “And the occasional leafy greens, of course. I’m not choosy. Oh, and pinky mice. I am a sucker for a juicy pinky mice.”

  Now he had Harriet’s attention. “What’s a pinky mouse?” she asked.

  “Frozen baby mice. A real delicacy.”

  We were waiting for him to offer us some, but that was apparently asking too much. If we wanted mice—pink or otherwise—we’d have to catch them ourselves.

  “So… about Dick Dickerson,” I said, returning to the topic under discussion.

  “Oh, right. How am I so certain Brenda didn’t do it. Well, she was here, for one thing, working at her desk in this very room, under my watchful eye.”

  “You watch your human work?” asked Harriet.

  “Why, yes. She seems to enjoy my company. Often she has remarked that I have a soothing effect on her, and why not? I am, after all, very easy on the eyes and pleasant to be around.” For some reason he’d lifted his paw in greeting, so I lifted mine in response.

  “So… who do you think might have done Dickerson in?” I asked.

  He was lifting his other paw now, so I followed suit. Weird.

  “Mr. Dickerson seemed to have a lot of enemies,” said the reptile. “Brenda often fumed about some of the stuff he wrote about her. He did the same to others, as well. One of his frequent targets was a man who liked to portray the President to humorous effect on television. Brenda also expressed the opinion that the man might have killed himself.”

  “Suicide?” said Harriet. “That doesn’t seem likely, considering the way he died.”

  “Yes, he drowned in his own feces, did he not?”

  “Not his own feces,” said Harriet. “Duck poop.”

  “Another species’ feces. How extraordinary.” The lizard frowned, or at least I thought he did. Tough to read facial expressions on a lizard. “I thought he died in his own excrement.”

  “Why would he kill himself?” I asked.

  Dooley had approached the glass terrarium, probably looking to get in on the pinky mice action. The lizard eyed him with suspicion. “Brenda said Dickerson was under investigation. Apparently he’d aided the President in his election by engaging in some form of illegal activities and prosecutors were going through his business with a fine-tooth comb. He was looking at dismissal from his own company and possibly prison, hence the suicide theory. Though as you say, the duck poop thing seems to preclude such a possibility.”

  “Unless he staged the whole thing to make it look like murder,” said Harriet, who was thinking hard. “All so he could cast the blame on one of his opponents.”

  “But who?” I asked. I turned to Humphrey. “Does the picture of a rose mean anything to you? It was left at the scene of the crime.”

  Humphrey regarded me sternly. “I don’t like roses. They give me stomach cramps. I will eat fruits and vegetables, provided they’re nicely chopped up, but no flowers thank you very much.” He’d climbed a tree branch that had been placed inside the tank.

  I had a feeling we’d gleaned as much information from Humphrey as we could, so I held up my paw in greeting and he did the same, though I had the impression he was merely trying to protect his stash of frozen baby mice from Dooley.

  “Dooley, let’s go,” I said. “Thanks, Humphrey. You’ve been most helpful.”

  “Glad I could help, cat,” he said.

  “Max,” I said, realizing my social faux-pas. “And this is Dooley and that’s Harriet.”

  “Lovely,” said Humphrey graciously. “Fare-thee-well—cats.”

  And we’d just stepped out of the room when we bumped into an angry-looking female. Judging from the cap she was wearing, and her blue apron, she was part of the cleaning crew. “Cats!” she screamed the moment she saw us. “We’ve got cats!”

  And then she was coming at us with a very large broom!

  Chapter 32

  Brenda Berish—Secretary Berish to her friends—was a motherly woman in her late sixties. She had a round face and a bouffant blond-gray hairdo. As in all the pictures I’d seen of her she dressed in a brightly colored pantsuit, this one a dazzling heliotrope.

  The drawing room where she met us was light and airy, a floral motif extending from the upholstery to the wallpaper and even the carpet. Light slanted into the room, lending it a pleasant atmosphere, and the window had been cracked to allow some air in.

  “Detective Kingsley—Miss Poole, how can I be of assistance?” asked Brenda, a kind smile playing about her lips.

  “As I told your assistant over the phone, we’re looking into the death of Dick Dickerson,” Chase said, flipping open his notebook and taking a firmer grip on his pencil. “Mr. Dickerson was known to be a fan of your political opponent—not so much of you.”

  “Which led you to think I might have done him harm,” said Brenda, nodding. “First of all, the night Mr. Dickerson was killed, I was in my study, working until late at night.”

  “Can anyone verify that, Secretary Berish?” asked Chase.

  “Oh, please, Detective. You don’t really think I drove a tractor up to Dick’s house and poured nine thousand gallons of duck poop into his safe, do you? So what you’re really asking is if I hired a crew of professionals to do that for me. I can assure you I didn’t. There was no love lost between Dickerson and my family but I’m not the kind of person who settles her scores by going around murdering people.” She’d placed her hands in her lap and sat poised and calm. “And to answer your question, my husband can verify that I was right here at the house. And if not him, my pet lizard can. Although I can’t imagine he’ll be willing to testify on my behalf.” She threw her head back and laughed a tinkling laugh.

  “What about your husband? Did he have reason to harm Mr. Dickerson?”

  “Of course he did. Do you have any idea what that man did to us?” She took out her phone and held it out to them. A few choice covers of the National Star appeared. ‘Brenda’s Cancer Scare.’ ‘Brenda Admitted—Her Fatal Collapse.’ ‘Brenda’s Abortion—Her Secret Love Child.’ ‘Brenda Going To Jail!’ ‘Brenda Confesses: I’m a Crack Addict!’ ‘Brenda Is A Lesbian!’

  “That’s quite the collection,” said Odelia. She’d always known journalistic standards at the National Star were low, but she’d never fully realized how low they really were.

  “Dickerson was the President’s hatchet man,” said Brenda, placing the phone on a gateleg table that held a portrait of her, her husband John and their daughter. “So he tried to destroy us. Naturally John wanted to hurt him. But he didn’t. He would never stoop that low.”

  “Does the picture of a red rose mean anything to you?” asked Odelia.

  Brenda shook her head. “No. Why?”

  “It was found inside the safe—in fact it was the only thing found in that safe.”

  “Dickerson’s files?”

  “Gone. Every last one of them.”

  She mused on that. “Dickerson had many enemies. And he kept extensive files in his safe. Everybody knew that. He propagated the idea he was the new Hoover. That he could break anyone with the dirt he collected on them. But this rose business doesn’t ring a bell.”

  “Do you know of anyone else who could have done this?” asked Chase.

  Brenda laughed. “Do you have a couple of hours? Like I said, he made a lot of enemies over the years.” When they both stared at her, she relented. “You want names? Well, I’ll give you names. There was the President himself, of course. The DA was coming after Dickerson for election fraud and he was prepared to make a deal in exchange for giving up Wilcox. Then there was that Russian mobster he was rumored to be blackmailing.”

  “Yasir Bellinowski.”

  “That’s the one. And there was the feud with his own daughter, who was suing him after he’d written her out of his will.”

  That was a new one, and Chase was furiously scribbling this all down.

  “Um. Who else? Oh, Olaf Brettin, owner of the Daily Inquirer and Dickerson’s biggest competitor.”

  “Why was he upset with Dickerson?” asked Odelia.

  “You’d have to ask him. All I know is that they hated each other’s guts. Probably because they were competing over the same shelf space and audience. Dickerson was winning, obviously. The Daily Inquirer only has half the circulation of the National Star.”

  Just then, a tall man with white hair walked in. It was Brenda’s husband John Berish. He looked fit and healthy for a man who’d had a heart scare not that long ago.

  Chase and Odelia got up to greet him but he gestured not to bother.

  “What’s wrong?” asked Brenda when she saw the look on her husband’s face.

  “Oh, nothing to worry about, darling,” he said. “Just some trouble with cats.”

  “Cats?” asked Brenda.

  “Vivicia caught them sneaking into your office. They were probably going for Humphrey.” He held up a hand. “He’s fine. Vivicia got there just in time.”

  “How in heaven’s name did they get in?”

  “The cook must have left the door open again when he went for a smoke.”

  Odelia’s heart sank. She knew exactly who those cats were, and why they’d snuck into the house. “Um, those cats are probably with me,” she said now.

  The cool gaze of Brenda raked over her. “What do you mean?”

  “They’re my cats. They… like to go exploring from time to time.”

  “Yeah, they must have escaped from the car,” Chase said, coming to her aid.

  “Oh,” said Brenda, and she didn’t seem very amused. “Well, then. I guess you better come with me and gather them up before Vivicia turns them into meat for my pet lizard.”